Scar Hill

by Alan Temperley

Mr Fraser ushered them into his room. He was a pleasant, balding man in a striped shirt, the sleeves gripped by red and silver armbands. An office junior brought coffee and cream with a plate of biscuits. Peter and Bunny sat facing Mr Fraser across his big polished desk as he pulled Jim’s folder towards him and took out the will.

  ‘I’ll give you a copy to take away, of course, but the basic bequests are really quite simple. Everything, with one small exception, has been left to his son, Peter. That’s you, young man. Your father had two bank accounts: a current account and a savings account. The figures have got to be finalised but together they come to about eleven thousand, two hundred pounds. There are a couple of policies to be cashed in, as well, which amount to a further eighteen thousand pounds, maybe a little more. In total it comes to a bit under thirty thousand pounds.’

  ‘And all this goes to Peter,’ Bunny said.

  ‘No, there’s the small exception I mentioned. Mr Irwin has left the sum of five thousand pounds to his daughter Valerie, in the event that she should contact him within,’ he checked the document, ‘the next three years.’

  ‘And what about his wife, Peter’s mother?’ Bunny asked. ‘She’s still alive as far as we know.’

  ‘Indeed she is, but they are divorced.’

  ‘So she can have no claim on the estate?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  Peter said, ‘Is it all right to ask? I don’t want to see her again or anything but do you know what’s happened to her? Dad never said.’

  Mr Fraser smiled over the top of his glasses. ‘Your father thought you might ask. He’s left you a letter.’ He slid an envelope across the table. ‘I’m sure it won’t answer all your questions but I believe it contains as much as he knew. I’m sorry you’re not a little older but, well, there we are.’

  Peter took it and read his name, Peter Irwin, in his dad’s handwriting.

  ‘You can read it when we get home,’ Bunny said. ‘That be all right?’

  Peter nodded.

  ‘Very good.’ Mr Fraser steepled his fingers. ‘Well, subtracting your sister’s bequest, which will revert to you if she fails to appear within the given period, and taking into account the funeral expenses and our fee, your monetary inheritance will amount to something like twenty-three thousand pounds.’

  Peter listened silently. It was unreal. This was his dad the solicitor was talking about. The words and numbers rolled through his head.

  ‘I’m permitted to release some of this money now, to be placed in a bank account for your needs in the short term – clothes, holidays, education, that sort of thing. I’d suggest five thousand pounds. The remainder will, very wisely in my opinion, be invested at our discretion to be released to you on your twenty-first birthday.’ Mr Fraser studied the documents before him. ‘The most important and valuable item of the will, of course, is the house, Scar Hill, and the land and crofting rights that go with it. These, together with all the contents, have also been left to you. But like the money, your father’s left them in trust until you reach the age of twenty-one.’

  ‘What precisely does that mean?’ Bunny asked.

  ‘Well, they’re his, but don’t actually come into his possession until he’s twenty-one. How old are you now, Peter?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘Well, for the next eight years we here, at Simpson, Fraser and Cherriwick, will manage the property for you. What’s usual in these cases is that we lease it to a tenant, in your name, until you reach the required age. The income, of course, will go into your account – I’d suggest the investment account. On due date the property, including the land and crofting rights, come into your ownership. Then you’ll be free to do whatever you like with it.’

  Peter’s heart was thumping. ‘Does that mean I can go back and live there?’

  ‘If you want to, yes. But in the meantime it leaves you free to concentrate on your schooling and go on to college knowing that when you’re finished the house will be waiting for you. And the money too, of course. It may sound like a large sum now, but I assure you, if you intend to live at Scar Hill and need to restock and buy machinery it won’t go very far.’ Mr Fraser sat back. ‘We’ve all heard a little about what you’ve gone through over the past few months. Nothing’s going to compensate for the loss of your father, that goes without saying, but in other ways, once you’ve got used to the idea, I think you’ll come to realise you’re a very fortunate young man.’

  ‘I’m sure he does.’ Bunny finished her coffee and rose. ‘I always liked Jim Irwin and never more than at this minute. You’re right, Peter is lucky to have had a most excellent father. Thank you very much, Mr Fraser.’

  Dear Pete,

  If you are reading this I’m afraid I won’t be around.

  You’re the best son any man could ask for and I love you very much. I’m sorry I haven’t been the father I would have liked.

  I never said much about your mum but I guess you have a right to know. Don’t be hard on her, she’s just different to you and me. In the early days, when we were first married and Valerie was a little girl, it was just great. Then I got sick and couldn’t be the husband she wanted.

  You were there the day she went off and I can never forgive her for putting you and Valerie through that. I didn’t go after her or try to bring her back. After I left the army the marriage was really over and there was nothing either of us could do about it.

  She never wrote but I heard bits from time to time. It wasn’t much and not very reliable. She started calling herself Cynthia Talbot and got a job in a clothes shop in Brighton – she always liked clothes. I think she moved around a bit. One time she was supposed to have gone to Germany but it didn’t work out. Last I heard was she’d married someone in the U.S. forces and gone to live in America. It might be right because she enjoyed army life, but it was illegal and very naughty because at that time she was still married to me. I tried to track her down but had no luck. That’s when we got divorced.

  I suppose she might come back sometime, or maybe when you’re older you’ll try to find her yourself.

  I’ve just tried to be a good father and I think we’re happy here at Scar Hill. Right now, as I write this letter, you’re upstairs in bed. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be around. For ever if I had my way.

  You’re a grand honest boy and I couldn’t be more proud of you.

  God bless and have a good life,

  Dad

  The interest died down. Peter went to the shop with Bunny, met people from the village, kicked a ball about with friends.

  A few days later he returned to school. He had always been a quiet, popular boy. In no time at all the other pupils, who had been warned by Mrs Harle and their teachers, stopped looking at him. They laughed and jostled as they trooped from lesson to lesson. Slowly life returned to normal.

  But not quite yet.

  45

  A Visit From Constable Taylor

  THEY WERE EATING breakfast when the phone rang. It was Davy, the young helicopter pilot. He had promised Peter a flight. Since it was Saturday and the sky was almost cloudless, would he be free to come that very morning? Peter certainly would and an hour later Davy landed on a stretch of moor close to the house. Bunny had prepared flasks of coffee and a lunch box for the two of them. Peter put on a helmet, strapped himself into the observer’s seat, and off they whirled.

  Peter loved it, they were the most exciting few hours of his life. First they hovered above the school playing fields where his friends broke off a game and stared up, shading their eyes to see who was waving. Peter saw them shouting and waving back crazily but their voices were drowned by the roar of the engine.

  Davy had worked out a route. First they flew south-west, climbing above little puffs of cotton-wool clouds to ten thousand feet, higher than such a small helicopter had any need to go. Far beneath them the lochs and moors, white-capped mountains and deep sea inlets were spread out like a map. They flew out above the deep blue waters and fishin
g boats of the Minch, circled the Isle of Skye and returned to the mainland. Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in the country, lay directly ahead. Davy dropped to see hill walkers trudging through the snow and rock climbers clinging like spiders to tremendous cliffs sheathed in ice.

  From Ben Nevis they turned up the Great Glen, skimming Loch Ness and searching for a glimpse of the humpy-backed monster. Bunny’s coffee and sandwiches were finished and Davy had arranged lunch at a lochside hotel. It was a two-hundred-year-old Highland hotel with stags’ heads on the wall. They ate looking out over the water and after a short break set off again.

  Davy refuelled at an RAF station east of Inverness, then flew low across the Moray Firth where dolphins were leaping and a spouting whale, swimming on the surface, dived as they came close. They carried on north over castles and forests and in the late afternoon the well-known coast and islands – unfamiliar from that height – rose to meet them. There was the harbour at Clashbay, there was Tarridale, and all too soon they were touching down on the heather above Three Pines. Davy could not stay for coffee and cakes, he was on duty that night. Peter and Bunny stood watching, their hair and clothes tossed by the downdraught, as the helicopter took off and disappeared beyond the rolling summits of the moor.

  A letter arrived from Mr Fraser, the solicitor, informing them that tenants had been found for Scar Hill, a shepherd and his wife with two children. They were renting the grazing rights too, and buying the flock, so needed to take possession within a few days, in time for the lambing. The house had to be cleared quickly.

  Bunny in her Land Rover and Peter in the van were up and down the track constantly. Many of Jim’s clothes were so worn that nobody would want them, but those that were tidy enough were washed and pressed and taken to a charity shop for the British Heart Foundation. A few pieces of furniture were to remain in the house but the shepherd’s wife wanted a new suite and mattresses, a new cooker, a new fridge and many other items. So the saleable pieces were sent off to an auction room while the rest – the pots and pans and rugs and curtains and washing machine and electric fire and battered chairs they had used for as long as Peter could remember – had to be loaded onto the trailer and dragged away to the dump. Treasured and more valuable items, such as pictures and the old clock, were taken to Three Pines and stored in Bunny’s loft.

  At last it was all done and late one afternoon Bunny drove off with Jasper, leaving Peter to say goodbye to his old home – at least for the time being. Accompanied by the dogs, he walked through the empty rooms: here he had lain in bed and made patterns with the beams across the ceiling; here Jim had cooked their dinner; here Valerie had given birth to Daisy; here he had stood and watched his mother drive away with Morris Sinclair; here he had cuddled up beside his dad and listened to stories at the fireside.

  He wandered into the outbuildings. Here was the bed where Ben and Meg had spent their nights; here was the crumbling, hay-filled stall where Jim had gone to escape his demons; here was the stain where he had spilled a bucket of sump oil from the tractor; here was the snowplough; and there were the sheep nuts that would last the tenant until well after lambing.

  A small flock of jackdaws flew over the house and landed on the newly-repaired roof of the byre. It was late in the day, after roosting time, almost as if they had come to bid him farewell. There were always jackdaws at Scar Hill. There had been jackdaws the day they arrived, when he was three years old. Perhaps there would be jackdaws to greet him when he returned. But that was a long way ahead.

  Peter let the dogs into the van, took a last look round and drove off down the track. The whins were in bloom, dappling the hillsides with gold. The stream reflected the last of the daylight. The house was hidden by the rising moors.

  Every morning, as Peter set off for school, Ben accompanied him to the rickety gate. Every afternoon, as the bus came chugging up the long hill, he was there to meet it. Then Peter made a fuss of him and Ben jumped up, his big grey paws on Peter’s shoulders, big black nose and tongue snuffling into his ear. A life without Ben, which Peter had feared, was something he could not bear to think about.

  One afternoon in March, as they ran down the steep slope to the house, Peter stopped dead in his tracks. A police car was parked alongside the Land Rover. Peter liked Constable Taylor. Several times he had called at Three Pines, just friendly visits to see all was well, but on this occasion he felt a shiver of apprehension.

  His intuition was confirmed when he went into the living room. Constable Taylor, who had three children of his own, was bouncing Daisy on his knee. Bunny stood watching him. As Peter appeared in the doorway their smiles faded. For several seconds no one spoke. The policeman returned Daisy to her cot.

  At once Peter knew. ‘It’s Valerie, isn’t it?’

  ‘Come and sit down.’ Bunny moved a magazine.

  He dropped his schoolbag and sank onto the chair.

  ‘I’m afraid so, son,’ said Constable Taylor.

  ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

  The constable nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Peter felt he had known for a long time. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Car crash.’

  Constable Taylor tried to protect him from the most distressing details but Peter filled in the gaps for himself. As he understood it, Valerie and Matt had been travelling so fast they were almost certainly killed instantly. The fire that followed, stoked by the full tank of petrol and hemmed in by the walls of the gorge, had been very intense. To make matters worse, the location was far from the nearest town and by the time the fire engines arrived the car had been gutted. Cutting equipment was needed to remove the bodies. Valerie and Matt were burned beyond recognition – burned so badly that it took forensic examination to establish these were the remains of a man and a woman. The contents of the car – their holdalls and everything that might provide a clue to their identities – had been reduced to ash. The car was identified by serial numbers stamped into the chassis, but it had been stolen from the thronging centre of Glasgow and the identity of the thieves remained unknown.

  Ever since, the bodies had lain on cold shelves in the hospital mortuary in Dumfries. But the police forensic department has a long arm. Several weeks later a computerised image of Matt’s dental pattern was examined by a dentist who treated inmates at Barlinnie Prison in Glasgow. It matched the record of a young prisoner who had received treatment there several years earlier. His name was Matthew Ramage. The prison had his records. The police computer took only seconds to identify him as the lorry driver who had disappeared a few weeks earlier. They tracked down his distressed parents and his divorced wife who appeared neither sorry nor surprised. They already knew his National Insurance number and HGV licence number. They re-interviewed his last known employer, Mr McReady, who repeated that Matt had been absent for three days somewhere in the region of Tarridale. Yes, when he returned to Glasgow he had been accompanied by a young woman. A police officer drove north to confer with Constable Taylor. Constable Taylor was able to name Valerie Irwin. There was little doubt the body was Valerie and a swab taken from Daisy confirmed her identity by DNA analysis.

  Peter’s father dead. Now, after all he had been through, his sister too. Bunny saw that he brooded and did her best to distract him. For Peter had loved Valerie. Despite her careless and infuriating ways, she’d had a kind heart. She was a free spirit with a zest for life. And apart from little Daisy and his long-gone mother, she was his only relative.

  Valerie’s funeral took place a few days later. The sun shone through stained-glass windows into the church which was full of young people. With a heavy heart Peter followed her coffin to the graveyard to be buried just a few metres from their dad.

  Now it was known Valerie would not be coming back, a decision had to be made. Peter loved living with Bunny Mason. In those few weeks she had become the mother he’d never known. He called her Bunny, and sometimes Auntie Bunny. Since his dad was gone and Scar Hill was occupied by tenants, he could not imagine a ha
ppier home than Three Pines.

  ‘Well, Peter,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’ It was the day of the funeral and they sat finishing supper at the kitchen table. ‘I love having you here, I hope you know that. Nothing would make me happier than if you wanted to stay on. But the decision’s got to be yours.’

  ‘Do you mean for keeps?’ He felt the blood rise into his cheeks.

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean. Now your sister won’t be coming back. A final decision, stay here and help me look after the animals. Make Three Pines your home.’

  In an alcove under the stairs, where the dogs had their beds, Ben sensed that something was afoot and trotted through to the big kitchen. He was followed by Jasper who had become his inseparable friend.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Peter said. ‘It’s what I’d like more than anything.’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I wouldn’t have asked you otherwise.’ She sat back, nursing her mug of hot chocolate. ‘Good, that’s settled then.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He didn’t know what else to say.

  The dogs stood watching. Peter’s eye was caught by a squeaky rubber duck at the far side of the room. ‘Hey, Ben,’ he said urgently. ‘Where’s Quacks?’

  Instantly alert, Ben stared around the kitchen, spotted his yellow toy and bounded across like a puppy. Jasper followed and they wrestled for it, snuffling and wuffing, tails flailing high in the air.

  Meg came into the room. Calmly, as if she were too old for such games, she watched Ben and Jasper at their play. Her teats were pink and swollen. A week earlier, in a cardboard box lined with newspaper, she had given birth to six puppies in a cupboard at the end of the hall. Bunny woke Peter in the middle of the night and he came down to observe and help. There was no doubt who the father was for two were grey, the image of Ben, two were a mixture and one was black and white like their mother. The sixth, a grey puppy twisted like a scarf, was born dead and Bunny took it away to bury in the pasture.

  How much easier it was for dogs than people, Peter thought as he watched the pups slip out into the world enclosed in their little sacs, and saw how economically Meg bit through the umbilical cord and licked each puppy clean. So different from Valerie with her loud cries and long night of pain.